Food and Drink

08/23/2014

After another good round of detoxing this summer, I was slowly coming out into the world and sampling alcohol again. And carbs. One of the first memorable experiences after the successful 21-day detox of no caffeine, alcohol, or grains/bread of any kind (seriously weird how great that feels) involved stopping by a friend's house to sample something that sounded just too good to refuse: freshly-made salsa accompanied by a newly crafted cocktail she had created (infused vodka, cucumber, plus basil for healthy herbal freshness).

That sounded so good it got me out of bed after a nap, which had been required after some light holiday day drinking earlier in the day with the neighbors.

The spread that awaited me was pretty much how I could eat every day. Snacks. But gorgeous ones of textures and colors that I just don't have around my house everyday.

Not only was there salsa mexicana (upper right), but also a bowl of peanuts and pumpkin seeds fried with garlic and chiles de árbol (bottom left). I went to town on the peanuts and pumpkin seed combo pretty quickly.

And then there was that cocktail.

On my arrival she was in prep phase: chopping the lovely multi-colored tomatoes into the salsa, and then effortlessly but patiently chopping the onions into perfect tiny little squares. Someone was sent to the store for more chips. "Really...I did not mean to be such a bother...." as I eyed the bowl overflowing with big beautiful colors and could not wait to dig in.

I then exclaimed, as the bowl filled up with all that color: "Check that out. All the colors of the Mexican flag!" I am surprised she did not disown me as a friend right then (I have a masters in Latin American Studies after all). Right, she says: thus the name "Salsa Mexicana."

It was spicy. Really spicy. And I could not get enough of it.

All too soon, or maybe just in the nick of time, there was nothing left.

I did not feel too badly that my 21-day purification cleanse of no bread ended with a few chips. The chips were just the vehicle for scooping all that up.

I tried the same concoction chez moi a few days later. Disaster. None of that tangy fresh addictive spiciness. My problem, I would find out from the expert, was that I used some lame jalapenos. I should have used serranos. And I probably should have paid closer attention to getting the salt and lime juice proportions right. The recipe is easy. It is the execution of chopping just right, and adding everything in the right proportions, that can be tricky for the newbie. This is all you need after all:

tomatoes

serrano peppers

onions

cilantro

freshly-squeezed lime juice

salt

When I finally tried it again, victory was mine. And I had some pretty painful burning on the left hand from the serrano-chopping to prove it. (Be very careful with the serranos. Soaking the left hand in milk worked pretty well to cool the burn. And another reader recommended yogurt.)

Peanuts and pumpkin seeds fried in garlic with chiles ... for the next dinner party.

06/29/2014

Angers, France is Austin's sister city, and it's worth a visit for many reasons--including what is nearby: the already very special Fontevraud Abbey made even more special now for the recently opened gorgeous new hotel and restaurant right on the Abbey grounds.

Visit the Abbey and the grounds for sure, and soak up the history of Eleanor of Aquitaine ("one of the most powerful and fascinating personalities of feudal Europe" one random www source says), then spend the night and wake up in perfect quiet and peace in the French countryside. The style of the hotel decor may be best characterized as W Hotel meets high-end organic, sleek yet monastic. Seriously sublime.

Fontevraud lends itself well enough already to fabulous outdoor celebrations, including festivals that keep the grounds open until all hours, with films projected everyone, including the Abbey walls, and people sleeping wherever a sleeping bag may fit. Sleeping peacefully in the cool tones of beige and white of the hotel rooms though is well worth the splurge.

Visit the hotel web site here to see what I mean, and learn about the Abbey's fascinating history here. At the hotel web site, be sure and click on that video for views via a cute little drone to get up close and personal with the countryside and the hotel's interiors.

Back when I visited in April 2014, I was not sure they would make the May launch date. But make it they did. In grand style. Jealous of Angers friend who received a special invite to attend these festivities, but as he sent me the pictures, all is forgiven.

The photos are the work of David Darrault, and all are protected by copyright. A big thank you to the Abbey staff (merci, Anne !) for letting me share his superb photos here.

12/24/2013

As the holiday frenzy winds down I am looking forward to quieter times with family and friends, which reminds me of one of the most charming holiday parties this season: a good old-fashioned kaffeeklatsch.

We were told our invitations did not include an invitation to our significant others (i.e, the husbands of the married folk). As part of getting schooled in our friend the hostess's German heritage, we learned about the tradition of the kaffeeklatsch. Women would gather and enjoy each other's company, conversation (gossip) over cakes or other simpler sweets and coffee.

And so on a quiet Sunday afternoon, early in the holiday season, we arrived for the kaffeeklatsch. The living room was casual and set up with a yummy sugary pastry and china coffee cups.

The more formal living room just the next room over was set up to the nines, with more china, a china coffee pot, creamer, plates, silver knives and forks, and finely starched delicate linens with crochet. We were told that the more formal setting in here, contrasted to the casual living room à propos of the kaffeeklatsch, replicated the kaffee kuchen ritual. This ritual would generally not take place at home for the pastries were so fancy for this: one would generally go out for this ritual and have -- cake.

We got things started off right with French 75 cocktails. Then it was time to move in for the conversation and cake. We tried to adhere to the formality of German custom and call each other "Frau" this and that, but that did not last long.

I wanted a seat at the dining room table very badly and maneuvered myself to get one. I was just so tickled with the German carols, the china, the silver, and the sweets all around. And maybe the French 75 kicked in too by then.

My seat was especially prime because it allowed close proximity to the cakes for viewing and then serving. There were two tiny multi-layer cakes, one adorably perched on a cake stand. One was Black Forest Cake, of course; the other was Italian Wedding Cake.

The world is divided into those who in the food realm tend toward the salty and those that tend toward the sweets. I have always been in the salty group and rarely get too excited about cake.

I especially have never been fond of Black Forest Cake or anything that tried to combine cherries with chocolate (except for biscotti) because it's just way too sweet. To get into the German theme though, Frau Wiley here went for a slice of the Black Forest Cake.

We learned that whipped cream was a must: it would be served in a crystal bowl and just placed on the table for self-serving. It could be used to stir into your coffee (yes, please), but also for the cake.

Seriously? Whippped cream on the cake? Just right there, plop a dollop of it down on the already-frosted cake? Yes.

I have a newfound appreciation for German food traditions (I am mostly of German heritage after all).

The cake selection was superb, from our favorite local bakery Upper Crust Bakery, and the Black Forest Cake was not too sweet. It was just right. And a dollop of whipped cream made it even more festive and, well, lighter it seemed.

There followed, as we were seated so ladylike around the table, conversation and story-telling. It was delightful and so civilized. It was just plain old conversation with some new friends, and with some friends whom we see a lot of, but somehow we just don't seem to have enough space and time to really talk.

Here's to all my over-extended, stressed-out mom friends and mover-shaker single women friends: let's say yes to more times of treating outselves to fine china, silver -- and cake and whipped cream!

12/15/2013

My neighborhood has an adorable holiday tradition of "The Parents Party"--to distinguish it from the myriad of other awesome neighborhood parties (where we can drink and eat to excess and just walk home), such as "The Kids Party," where Santa makes an appearance and delivers presents to kids of a certain age.

One year that party was at my house, and Santa nearly fell down my stairs, and I never hosted that one again. Now that I've grown up and out of the Kids Party, I have been delighted to have had the Parents Party chez moi for three years in a row now. Last night was number 3.

Every year the dynamic is different: one year we were singing Journey and the Rolling Stones; next year we had jazz pianist Rich Harney and a drunken group selfie on my front porch; this past year (last night) we had a little bit of everything:, including two jazz musicians: vocals and piano--both women--and gracious underwriting of the live music element from my posse of music guys in the hood.

We started around 7pm for this annual potluckof food and wine, with folks wandering in around 7:30 and onward, and did not wind down really until midnight. I started to email my gratitude to our awesome group this morning, but decided why not turn it into a blog post. So here goes, along with a photo essay of some really phenomenal food:

Dear "RidgeleaMoms" (term of art given the composition of the group):

It was a delight to groggily wander downstairs – just now at 11 am – to find a clean house. I was particularly in awe of – seriously – the pristine nature of my floors. Not a single crumb. Tara really went to town with the sweeping. I learned a lot from her. Like I need an inside broom and an outside broom. And never shall one be used in place of the other. Never.

Thank you Amy for diving into my "drawer of shame" in the kitchen (the junk drawer) and helping me feel not so awful by announcing you found what you needed right away.

Given the deficit of energy and time I had because of work stuff this past week, I owe a big thank you to all of you and especially Molliefor assisting with the forward motion of the party getting planned and started last night. With her ample food donations, outsourcing the kitchen clean-up and other tasks – Mollie really helped make the fiesta happen. EVERYONE’s food was out of this world – in quantity and quality. And Gina’s flowers were totally over the top. Gorgeous!

Our help for the evening: Kendall takes coats, wine. Jazz vocalist Karen Tennison and pianist Peggy Stern starting out with jazzy rendition of "Let It Snow."

Thank you Grant – for helping to underwrite the music and providing the music as well. I look forward to our Godspell and Lionel Richie musical montage one year. (Remind me to stop drinking Mollie's cranberry ginger "Holiday Margaritas" earlier in the evening though if we do get that organized.)

And to Jesse as another music underwriter – thank you for counseling me on (1) music concert ideas for future house concerts and (2) my party anxiety issues and telling me to chill and take it down a few notches on my concern for making sure everything was going ok. It's just a neighborhood party after all.

Thank you Dan for (1) getting together for me at the last minute the slide show of our neighborhood "camping" trip to Port A – we’ll show those another time in better conditions (we thought about a screen outside with a loop of the slides); and (2) figuring out that despite your intense efforts my Dell laptop does not like to be connected to my TV. And of course the smoked salmon you made for the party, despite a very late night out the night before....much appreciated.

Soul food I got from new business owner and entrepreneur Leslie - seriously; this is ridiculously awesome macaroni and cheese. And her meatloaf with "brown gravy" was really a rich sauce with green bell peppers, onions, and sliced mushrooms. I overheard someone say this was the best meatloaf they had ever had. I agree. Thank you Foundation Communities for featuring Leslie and helping get the word out about her awesome food.

Thank you Mollie for over-doing with your generosity. This "salad" may become a mainstay in my party planning. So lovely with those parmesan shavings and all the overflowing abundance on that white serving piece.

It was good to see new faces – but with so much going on, I am sure I will not remember your names. Please don’t take it personally: I’m pushing 50 you know.

Funny how at one point in the week, it looked like we had pretty much no desserts that would be arriving for the potluck. I don't know why I worry about this. Ridgelea folks you kicked it up several notches with some bad ass desserts. (I'm talking to you in particular, Stephanie, and this Pavlova with raspberry coulis and fresh whipped cream)

Indeed, what would a neighborgood party be without Kevin and Stephanie bringing their signature homemade bread and Kevin outdoing his previous years' efforts by making exquisite artisanal chocolate.

Trying to fit that lemon meringue show-stopper pie in the fridge was quite a challenge. Thank you, Sally and Tim, for bringing that by yesterday afternoon, even if you could not make the party. We missed you!

Housekeeping matters:

For those of you who forgot your monies for the clean-up donation, feel free to drop that off at my house – in the black mailbox by my front door - when you get a minute. We fell short of our projections, so our neighborhood holiday party accountant (Mollie) told me.

Leftover: A lovely silver cake slicer, with ornate handle, and a straight edge for cutting and wider rest of the thingy for serving.

But seriously, thank you everyone for everything, including just enjoying yourself in my home. I love sharing it with you - even if you love to hang out in that narrow passageway near the icemaker.

11/12/2013

Much like the last time I landed early at Paris CDG and then took the train to Angers, despite 2.3 hours to wait, I still just had a minute to spare getting to the right place on the train. But that is another story.

I wish I could take the TGV from Austin to Paris.

Arrival in Angers. It is always a delight.

Even today on a drizzly day it was lovely. The rainbow tram was a burst of color in the grey.

It was time to find my apartment rental. This was the first time I was opting for the apartment route in Angers, which is the route I almost always take in Paris. Outside of the bigger cities, the vacation rental ritual, however, is not nearly as organized. I still love the idea; it compels one to explore a different part of the city and be part of a real neighborhood. But I will ask more questions next time I rent in less robust rental markets.

I finally find the apartment, only after the kind landlord had been waiting a long time. I got a tour. These 1800s tile floors are lovely. There is an upstairs, where the bedroom and bathroom are.

She tells me one of the most important things for a renter in a new neighborhood: where to shop for foodstuffs. She shows me where to go. Then I ask THE most important question, which always gives me heartburn for an apartment rental: the wifi. The internet access. I ask where the code is. It is written in those tiny black letters on the "Livebox" under the bed. Ok. Ignore bad feeling. Try to.

As soon as she leaves I try to get all my devices fired up and connected to that code. No go. Off and on for the devices. I do all the usual tricks, to no avail. I email her for troubleshooting tips for this particular moden and router. None. For the Paris apartment landlords who rent to travelers, there are usually very detailed instructions on this. Here, I was on my own I realized. Then I also realize, with some horror, another pitfall of renting in an area that does not see a lot of foreign travelers but mostly French travelers: there is no blow dryer. The landlord confirms this (I emailed her again).

I decide that in addition to wine, of course, and bread, of course -- and cheese and fruit -- I will need to add to my list a blow dryer and an ethernet or whatever cord that is. I decide I will connect the laptop directly to the box.

The good thing about the smaller pace of life in a small town is the fact it is a small town. The bad thing is that it is a small town. There is no Monoprix around the corner. I have no idea how I will find a blow dryer. By some miracle, I remain good-humoured about all this, but all the while I am having to use more and more of that expensive data plan just to check email.

I bought some overly beautiful vegetables here. Also purchased some angevin wine. Almost went for many other items - fig preserves, honey candies (honey much lauded for health benefits). I randomly settle on carrots, apples, bananas. I am tired, keep in mind.

Time for bread. This Boulangerie looks nice. And yes, the nice lady explains to me that I am correct the l'Epautine ? is more rustic, like a pain de campagne. I take it.

Next stop the regular little grocery store, a tiny tiny Carrefour. Because the other very important thing about the apartment rental is to figure out the cofffee: Do I have to buy coffee? Do I have to buy filters? I was there to buy coffee.

I am hopeful, maybe, maybe they have a blow dryer? Cord for the Livebox? Silly to hope. I ask at checkout if they have some, maybe, but then have to ask, of course, where could I get one. He points me down the street, a 15-20 minute walk. I cannot go to meeting the next day with head of bio science international program with wet hair. I march on. And on. And on. I finally see a faint light for a large commercial area. Buried back in the center is the "Super U" - this looks promising. It is a brightly lit tacky combination of Walmart and Target and a grocery store. I look and look. I almost give up. I finally find a hair dryer.

Score. Not happy with the price, but there is only this option.

As for the cord, I find a section with some technology gadgets, ear buds and HDMI cords. But not what I wanted. I am so anxious for internet access I ask the lady at the welcome desk for help, not knowing the exact word in French for what I needed. She says would I mind waiting just a bit; her colleague is much better at these things than she is. Sure, I'll wait.

I don't really believe her, actually. But I wait. And wait. I left to go look again for myself, when he showed up and asked if I was the lady looking for that cord. Yes! He thought it was an HDMI cord, but no, finally I explain what it is I need: to connect the laptop to the LiveBox modem/router. He is totally on it.

He says: I don't have one in stock here, but you know, I think I have an old one you can use. I am not sure I understand him correctly. But sure enough: he comes up with the exact thing I was looking for. He wraps it up. He says no charge. Just take it.

Seriously?? Yes, of course. We French, "on offre." We get the blow dryer purchased. I am warm and fuzzy inside at this kindness.

At 5:30 pm it is now very dark. And chilly. And it is really drizzling. I walk home in the drizzle. No worries. I have a blow dryer.

I start in on the internet issue using the cord from the dear man at the brightly lit mass market industrial store. I try and try. I turn off and on the laptop. I turn the modem/router off and on, just like at home, by unplugging it.

No go, but then, suddenly, something worked. The wireless was working. It started working, connecting to the Internet finally, as I was trying to get the cord to work.

10/20/2013

What is happening to France, its food culture, its very identity. Talk of lower bread consumption. More people going to the gym. More snacking. More bad food habits. The loss of the closed-for-lunch to enjoy
something more satisfying than a quick sandwich.

Nothing to do with France per se; but I had a lovely sit-down lunch at Mettle last week. Frank, our server, was a rock star. He did not even mind my detailed order about how my double espresso should arrive (piping hot).

And now I learn that one of the most talked about restos in
Paris, le Bistrot Paul Bert, is offering a snack time food offering in the late afternoon, which they are calling “un petit faim” (for those being
just a little hungry/with a little hunger).
From 2 pm to 6:30 pm, Tuesdays through Saturdays.

Paris! France! What has gotten into you?!

Don’t get me wrong. I LOVED this idea immediately when I
first saw Wendy Lyn’s posting it on The Paris Kitchen this weekend:

A country terrine (9€), Jambon de Paris with salad (12€), omelette (10€) with cèpe mushrooms (15€), duck foie gras on toast (16€), sauteéd eggs and ham (9€), cheese plate (9€), a daily-changing hot plate of the day (14€) and desserts like their famous Paris-Brest, crème caramel and Baba au Rhum (8€)."

I love this offering because as I map out my eating-out calendar for only 4 November days in Paris (arriving on a Sunday, leaving the following Thursday), that leaves only two full days of eating at many of the worthwhile eating places in Paris. This is because, of course, many restaurants/bistrots are closed on Sunday and Monday, making those days challenging (but by no means impossible) if food is a priority on your Paris stay.

This news then, finding out that I can get in for a little taste of something at this much-praised old school-ish food heaven that is le Bistrot Paul Bert (and right down the street from my rental digs in the 11eme) and avoid worrying how to work it in on the limited lunch and dinners on two days...well, it's a huge relief.

And what timing to see this bit of food news--about institutionalizing (high-end) snacking--just as other changes to French culture are underway, or at least talked about with more frequency. I learned this tidbit from The Paris Kitchen just one day after we discussed in my Business French class the forces that are underway to do away with the (currently almost complete) ban on Sunday openings for retail stores in France (including Paris). Again, what is happening to France?! [This is part of an immense demographic, cultural, socio-economic shift, as this recent article on this same topic notes.]

Sure, it’s annoying that the shopping paradise that is BHV is closed on Sundays. But I appreciate more the why it is closed and what that means as a metaphor for the pace of Sunday life, even in such a huge and cosmopolitan city as Paris. The very limited retail activities that are allowed to exist on Sundays in Paris, and all of France, means the day has a tranquility to it than we in the US do not even realize we are missing.

I try to plan trips around being in Paris on a Sunday. It is, in theory, a day for family. For cycling. For meandering. Or sitting in the park. Not running to Target to get a headstart on the week. The pace just seems slower. I relish it. I deal with the restaurant "situation," with many/most being closed on Sundays and Mondays, by embracing the structure this provides to restaurant planning.

So although I love that I can knock Bistrot Paul Bert off the list for a meal (if I could even get a reservation), because I can stop in and get a “duck foie gras on toast” snack one afternoon in between meetings, I still have to wonder.

What has gotten into France.

I get that change is good. Change and iterations thereof in all facets of daily life are inevitable. But those changes that wreak havoc with the very core of one’s identity...those changes I’m not so sure about. Once BHV is open on Sundays, I will know the end of the world, or France as I know it, is nigh.

09/29/2013

It is the Fourth Annual, but it was my first time dining al fresco, on a cool if faintly humid evening, on a red iron bridge suspended over Onion Creek: Moore's Crossing was the site of Inherit Austin's fourth annual fundraiser, which they appropriately entitled, "Somewhere in Time."

Per the Inherit Austin site for the event, "Built in 1884, this iron bridge was part of the original Congress Avenue Bridge. In 1910, it was placed in storage and then rebuilt over Onion Creek at Moore’s Crossing in southeast Austin in 1922."

And sure there was a lot of neat information we heard about the bridge, after the appetizers were passed, such as the bridge's role in national and local architectural and other regular historical history, but all I wanted to do was step back from the crowd and watch the light change over the table and the delicate red iron work, and then wait impatiently for the servers to light the jumbo tea light votive candles on the long table extending all along the bridge.

We met some new best friends during the pre-dinner-party party. I think some more fabulous parties are afoot for 2014.

Say la V, who did the catering, did a good job of getting those appetizers out fast. Experience shows, from my attending too many not-well-executed events like this, people want two things when they show up--and fast: (1) alcohol and (2) food.

If you get the invitees fed and watered this way--and early--warm happy feelings about the event are a foregone conclusion. These folks really did a good job. (See what getting the food and wine out fast does to a person?)

Sure the Figs with Blue Cheese Espuma on Fennel Cracker were nice and charming to behold for their visual appeal.

But I could have sat down with a platter all to myself of the "Chickpea & Salt Cod 'Fries' with Piquillo Ketchup." No pictures. Ate them too fast.

The courses, once we were excused after the speeches to make our way politely to find a seat---felt like musical chairs a bit--were served family style. So the way to go for these things. The first course served on a giant square white platter: Tuscan Kale Caesar Salad with Giant Ciabatta Croutons, Roasted Garlic Dressing and Grana Padano. That dark, dark green again the white platter, plus the tangy garlic and those chewy garagantuan croutons....makes me think that kale will be back in rotation at my house very soon.

Somehow the Roasted Carrots & Zucchini with Walnut Gremolata never made it my way. I did not miss it. I was riveted by the love story of the 50+ somethings next to us: hthey have 6 kids; she, a busy executive of an arts/design company, is having surgery soon.

I managed to inhale dessert -- Polenta and Almond Cake with Pears and Honey and Chilled Marsala Zabalgione. It was so lovely, but I neglected to ask the servers to leave some for my GFs who had gone to Los Baños, and I heard all about that when they returned. But I was seriously lost in the story-telling of the people around me. I wondered if I would someday have a story as charmed as theirs. Maybe I already do, and I don't even know it.

Tonight was an abundance of riches for Austin food events in and around architectural gems. It also was the night for Pearl Dive at The Plant, which broke my heart not to attend and help out those Rude Mechs for their fundraiser and spend an evening immersed in some Lake|Flato architecture at The Plant. Who knows what I missed not making that event. But for now, I'm just glad I did not miss out on dinner at Moore's Crossing with Shelly and Mollie. And our many new best friends.

09/12/2013

Welcome to Part 3 of this GourmandeMom (Beginners) Guide to Austin's sister city, Angers, France-- in honor of Austin's Psych Fest hitting the road for Levitation at Le Chabada.Part 1 is a general introduction to Austin and Angers, including some very basic tips on getting by in French culture; Part 2 gets down to business with some specifics on the restaurant scene in Angers. Part 3 goes into practical details about train travel and a few of the sites just to whet your appetite about making the trip to Angers.

Indeed, a great aspect about Angers is that its size is manageable. It's large enough to have some interesting industry in the creative arts and technology, yet small and charming enough to get up close to the people and the terroir, get some history lessons while having your mind blown by some edgy contemporary tapestries (no, not an oxymoron), then walk a few feet and have some local Loire Valley wine while overlooking the Maine River and maybe catch an opera at the Quai. It's not a bad life....

Angers Salon de Thé: Le Dos de la Cuillère

Getting to Angers from Paris

You can land at Charles de Gaulle-Roissy (CDG) airport and take a train straight from there to Angers, or spend a few days in Paris. If you stay over in Paris before heading to Angers though, the train station (la gare) from which you will depart is Gare Montparnasse. Paris has many train stations: which one you need to find to catch your train depends on which direction you are heading.

That Great SNCF Site ... if it likes your credit card

Check out the train schedules on line. I go straight to the site for the SNCF (the national rail system) and buy tickets on line. Just print to PDF, save, and pull it up on your smartphone to show that to the conductor checking tickets on the train. He will probably ask you to enlarge the bar code so he can scan it. There is also an SNCF app for this.

Be prepared though for this otherwise slick routine not working. That SNCF site can be picky about US credit cards. Have a couple of different credit cards handy (and be sure and tell the credit card company before you leave that you will be traveling).

If the site does not like your card once you have done all the work to select the train, time, and seat number, it will block the card for 24 hours until you can try again. No fun if you are in a rush. And because that US card will not work at the self-serve kiosks at the station (because it does not have “puce” or smart chip like French credit cards): you’ll be stuck waiting in line (if there is one) at the train station if none of the technology is working for you. Some US credit cards do have the smart chip technology, however, so check this superb article on the issue—including a list of the cards that have the technology—to be fully functional for maximum credit card spending abroad.

Don’t be confused if you see references on the train schedules and at the station to not just the TGV but the TER. It’s a train too, a regional one. It will get you where you are going just as well.

If you end up buying a regular ole paper ticket, you may hear a word and see signs reminding you to “composter” your “billet.” It’s a process of just validating the paper ticket. The machine to do this is a little yellow machine, somewhere around before you leave the lobby of the gare to reach the area to find your train. This article sets it all out for you.

Regardless of whether your arrival via TGV is straight from Charles de Gaulle airport or Gare Montparnasse, the arrival in Angers is a shock to the system.

Light and bright, the Angers the train station (referred to on TGV schedules as Gare St.-Laud) is, well, pretty. No grunge or ugliness here. It is a breath of fresh air – fresh Loire Valley country air. It always makes me smile when I walk out into the lobby, look out the big glass doors, and see the rainbow-colored tramway on the other side of la gare.

Many hotels are located close by, and if you have a room at the Best Western Hotel d’Anjou, (where I usually stay because it is close to the Hotel de Ville and the economic development agency), the tram will take you straight there in just a few minutes. There’s a stop practically right in front of the hotel.

But before you leave, you might want to stop by the nearby tourism office and load up on maps, brochures, fliers galore about château tours, etc.

If possible, avoid a bus tour. How can you really see and love the countryside from a bus?! Get on a bike.

Vineyard surrounding the château in nearby Saumur

Many bike rides with a handy map on how to get from Angers and into the vineyards are available. But perhaps the one to Savennières is the most fun and interesting for the food- and wine-inclined person. Savennières dates from the early Christian era and has been producing lovely white wines for almost two enturies. From there, you can head back to Angers for dinner at Chez Rémi – assuming you reserved already – or keep going, to the village of Béhuard, one of the most charming villages of the region: it is in fact a little island in the middle of two branches of the Loire.

So get out there into the countryside and get to know the terroir: Drink local (wines)!

Les musées

Sure museums can be tiresome (for me), but when they are sited as beautifully as the ones in Angers are, and combine modern architecture with medieval mysticism – and outdoor gardens with apocalyptic contemporary tapestries -- these are museums that even I with a short attention span can love.

The gardens are lovely, and the old and new combine again here: contemporary textiles sited within the courtyard for an outdoor public art installation (last time I was there) at the Museum of Contemporary Tapestry.

The series of tapestries extends through an enormous dimly lit room that highlights the stunning deep blues and reds of the background. Hard to believe that in the fervor and atrocities of the French Revolution this work of art was cut up into pieces — for protection — and distributed to various people to safeguard it.

Not all the pieces were recovered — 16 went missing — but the rest was returned and restored between 1843 and 1870.

This is the piece that inspired Jean Lurçat and his work, all of which in toto reinvented the art of tapestry-making.

Angers does not stop at the river. Cross any one of the bridges from the part of Angers around the Château and the old Medieval city and explore the charming area of La Doutre. The 11th century origins of this area, origins centered around religious institutions, give it a completely different feel from the Angers across the river. Its origins are centered around the Abbey of Le Ronceray, one of the wealthiest abbeys in Anjou up to the revolution. Though this video runs a little long, the visuals are lovely and evoke the magic of this special little part of Angers.

08/01/2013

I've been thinking long and hard about why I had such a visceral dislike for my experience at Arro Friday night--despite the fact (or because of the fact) that I was so looking forward to a French food fix in my hometown after 4 weeks in France.

Walk home one evening in Paris, post dégustation of wine, cheese with Paris by Mouth at La Dernière Goutte

Some elements are easy to identify.

Element 1. Really loud club music. Unclear if Arro is trying to be a club or bar that serves food, or if it is aiming to be a restaurant. I've been noticing the music now everywhere I go. They turned it down for us, as I started pouring for myself the bottle of wine I had just purchased as the bar (anticipating a long wait for our group of 3), as I needed something fast to distract me from how awful the first impression was with the music. That wine was my new recent favorite, however, which I was thrilled to see as an option: Clos Siguier, a natural wine from Cahors (France), which has been my recent go-to at Vino Vino.

Same walk home as above. My motto for my life these days it seems..."All you need is wine."

Offerings were stupendous: the duck confit was almost my choice. I (and my two dining companions) opted instead for the very reasonable $25 "menu" or "formule"--French style, picking a starter, main dish, and a dessert.

What happened next was Element Two of a not-great night, and the focus of gastronomic debate with friends and introspection in the days following.

My starter was the French Onion Soup, a classic, and one for which I have fond, strong feelings in terms of how I like it given my experimentation with various recipes over the years. As my friends' Herb Salad starter arrived, which they loved, I received a white soup bowl with a plate on top of it. On top of the plate was a portion of a baguette -- about the size of that small 6-inch Subway sandwich -- covered with melted cheese. I looked up, dazed and confused, at the server. Uh, so, what's the deal here with the cheese bread on the side?

Answer: It's so the bread does not get all mushy in the soup. Or you can break it into pieces and put it in the soup yourself.

Ok, well, I thought that was sort of the point of French Onion Soup -- the challenge of toasting the bread just right so when it is broiled with the Comté or Gruyère on top you have that pleasing combination of textures: the crisp crust of the bread, the rich stock of the soup, the bite of the hot cheese. I ate it, sullenly, under protest, but noting the soup itself was nice. Not as strong and bold as I like mine, but with a sweetness, showcasing the obviously well-caramelized onions.

Element 3. The bread situation.

As one would expect from a place that is owned by the same folks who own the place that I think has the best baguette in town - Easy Tiger (which I told Meg Zimbeck of Paris by Mouth... hope she stops by and checks it out while she is visiting family in Georgetown/Round Rock this summer) - the bread could steal the show. Charging people $2 per person to have a bread plate (served beautifully, true) on the side though ... me no like. I get that something this artisanal and gorgeous cannot just be the side, not for those diners who may not care enough to notice how superlative it is. Surely somehow a bread serving can be built into the pricing, along with that mysteriously delicious, not-ordinary fluffy salted butter that accompanies it.

Despite the onion soup bust (for me), the bread sur-charge situation, and the nightclub music beat, dessert was exquisite.

Melissa and I ordered the Rosewater Profiteroles. (See the Arro menu here.) True, these were not classic profiteroles: with vanilla ice cream or a creamy filling inside and hot dark chocolate sauce (Benoit in Paris comes to mind), but I was forewarned on the menu not to expect that. Indeed, I ordered them because they were so intriguing ("Rosewater Profiteroles .. pistachio ice cream, raspberries, black pepper"). Maureen ordered the Dark Chocolate Pot de Creme -- another one of my favorite stand-bys, but this one was at another level, with "apricot brandy milk liqueur and cherries."

I am not "a dessert person." The Arro desserts could turn me into one. Bite after bite I marveled at the profiteroles: the combination of the spice of the pepper against the sweet lightness of the ice cream and the inherent ethereal nature of rosewater.

Over the next morning's workout, Melissa and I debated the deconstructed French onion soup and my whining, still, over this big let-down (for me). Classics are tweaked and revised and reinvented the world over. This is how innovation pushes the evelope in culinary terms. What was my big deal?

I honestly don't know. That loud music, the high ceilings that make the music bounce around all over, the really young dining crowd (not us). It just hit me in the face all wrong. Not sure why. Justine's is deafeningly loud, but I love that place. There the music is vintage jazz. Maybe it works because the music fits the space, the food, the diverse crowd.

Maybe Arro is still just finding its way, its people -- and the right soundtrack for the space and those people. Just not sure I'm going to be one of those people, unless it's a quiet Saturday and I'm at the bar, listening to jazz, having a glass of that Clos Siguier and a slice or two of that exquisite bread. And maybe a bite or two of that chocolate pot de crème.

07/22/2013

For years we foreigners without a special "puce" -- or smart chip -- in our US credit cards could not enjoy the thrill of checking out the Paris "vélib," a vast city-wide network of 20,000 bikes to pick up and drop off at "stations" all around Paris, at a low, low price. The concept inspired the vélib name : "vélo" is the French word for bicycle, and "libre" means "free." Paris now has the "Autolib" - same concept, except for electric cars. But back to the bike.

The lack of a smart card is not a problem anymore for checking out a vélib. Your US credit card, which has otherwise been working overtime at all those stores, wine bars, and restaurants in Paris, will now get you a super cheap day, or just an hour or so, of fun on the vélib. And a little bit of additional exercise does not hurt either. All that walking will not diminish the effect on your hips and thighs of days of croissants for le petit dejeuner and enjoying a cheese course with every meal. Additional work is needed. If you care about those things.

How it works and a few tips for the novice, non-techie velib customer.

1. Go to the on line site here. If you're in Paris longer and want to make this a daily habit, go for the 7-day pass. All I needed was a one-day experience. You can pick the start time for "now" or pick any 24-hour period. But if you decide you need to blow off the pre-purchased ride, no worries. It is only 1.7 euros. For an entire day.

2. The process on line is straightforward. (You could probably do this same process at one of the kiosks, but this applies to the on-line process that I used.) Two numbers are critical here, besides the credit number you will input. On this screen, you pick a 4-digit PIN. You will need the number to pick up the bike at whichever station you choose.

* I wrote my code down on my iPhone notes. But then I wore down the battery taking pictures all day on my velib tour. A hard copy back up or a good memory is a good back-up. The latter does not work so well for me.

3. Once the code is entered and payment made, you will get a client identifier. One more number to remember. It's longer than four digits. Write that one down.

4. With these two numbers, you are liberated from the slow pace of walking and aching feet and free to pedal around Paris, down along the Seine, up around the Etoile, and learn that sometimes pedestrians are the most potentially dangerous obstacle for the cyclist, not cars.

5. Download the velib app on your smart phone. This is not critical, but how else would you know (i) whether there are velibs available at that very moment; (ii) where a station is to park/return the velib (i.e., a station where there are spots available to place it into the "fastening post" for each bike) while you grab some coffee, do some shopping, or walk around a new neighborhood you stumbled upon; and (iii) how many velibs are available at that very moment at the closest velib station near you. I found the app indispensable ... for as long as I had battery power left in the iPhone to use it.

6. At the velib station, walk confidently to the keypad and follow the helpful instructions on the screen - available in English.

There are many options available to you when you get to the screen.

You want to "take out a bike."

First, the client identifier will be needed, to confirm you are someone the system recognizes. That's the longer number that you received that when you bought the pass on-line. Then you will need that easier-to-remember 4-digit PIN that you selected.

Time to pick out a bike from the numbered parking spaces/ locking mechanisms into which each bike is parked.

This particular bike will be identified at the kiosk/instruction screen as bike no. 3. Note the silver button on the bottem there to unlock. This is important.

7. Even though you may have already scoped out which bike you want, the screen will alert you to which bikes are available.

I picked Bike No. 3. Note the helpful instructions here. Need to push that silver button in the previous picture to unlock the bike and pull it out from that locking mechanism.

Paris is yours!

8. Read the safety instructions. Get familiar with the bike. Get ok with understanding some of the signage for following the bike "paths" around Paris. Wear a helmet, if available. (Not required, but recommended)

9. Set off. Note there are gears for the bike. In some places there are very well-marked bike lanes and routes identified. I started off here, on Batignolles, on a quiet Sunday morning.

I just followed the signs to the Etoile, which was easy to find from there and a breeze on a Sunday morning. I figured out the gears at the last minute. Who knew there was a bit of an uphill climb to the Arc de Triomphe?

9. After this, getting to Place du Trocadero (primo viewing spot in chic quartier for the Tour Eiffel) was a breeze.

Thanks to my velib app, I knew there was a velib station on one of the many avenues that end at the Place, e.g., Avenue d'Eylau, and there were plenty of open parking spots. I parked the bike, inserting it firmly into an available spot after pushing that button to unlock. I did not care that I was hot, sweaty, and in a tank top for my carb-loading breakfast at this elegant cafe.

After that, I was really ready to get to some serious cycling in.

I crossed over to the left bank, thinking a stroll along the left bank along the Seine and around Invalides would be nice.

I accidentally ended up on the right bank due to some confusion on my part on the bike paths, etc. I learned you really can just make your own path and do whatever. I went back over to the other side (at the point at which I took the picture above). I explored the new Paris urban infrastructure achievement of Les Berges. It is cool in an edgy but very kid-friendly way. Games, decks, bars, lounge chairs ... it's all there amidst public art installations.

Sundays in Paris are magical. The stores are closed. You have no choice but to relax. As testament to this, those broad thoroughfares along the Seine are closed to cars. The bikes, skateboards -- runners -- they all rule the roads for a time on Sundays. And it was this thoroughfare I found along the right bank of the Seine to finally ride and ride and ride.

Cycling along the Seine on a Sunday in Paris ...

Priceless.

And if you park your velib at the Hotel de Ville, as I did ...

... I highly recommend stopping in at (sort of) nearby Candelaria for Mexican breakfast (lunch) and a cocktail.

Okay, well maybe a cocktail with absinthe and mescal is not the best thing after 3 hours on a bike, but in Paris, on a Sunday, it's all good.

(I had the Tamarini from the cocktail brunch menu.)

(Velib-riding after this...no. That is what the metro is for : a ride home after something like this when dehydrated.)

07/14/2013

Back from four weeks in France, on day 2.5 back in Austin, I am still haggard-looking and can barely fit into my last resort, back-up fat jeans. Thinking back on how crazy it seems now to have worked from France for 4 weeks, some of my best memories are random conversations with people when I was dining solo, and the best conversations were with les francais, not Americans.

I checked out Aux Deux Amis over in the 11th, where all the neat new places seem to be these days. Aux Deux Amis has been on my mind, particularly because of my exploration of the natural wine scene in France. I walked in early enough to get a seat and settled in at the bar. This piece by Amy Thomas at the HiP Paris Blog depicts said bar.

I got my order in, ordering in such a way that allowed me to try a white and a red wine out of the natural wine selections. "Vin nature" seems to be all the rage just now. I was delighted the manager dude picked out which red and which white. The thing with natural wines is that they are outside the AOC/AOP regime. That means that the producers are forbidden from placing anything remotely resembling a reference to a region. Makes it difficult to know what to order: can't say with these wines "I'd like a Brouilly" ... or a Chinon, or a Bordeaux. More on this in an upcoming article.

I struck up a conversation with the young American guy who took the seat open next to me at the bar.

I asked him what brought him to Paris (en anglais), a benign conversation-starter.

He: Oh, I've been coming to Paris for like 14 years now.

[Me, to self: ok, well I've been coming here for like 32 years now so, whatever.]

He inquired where I was from, as he could not discern any regional US accent. I said Texas. That telltale accent goes away apparently when speaking French for a time.

Me: This place has been on my list for some time. I noticed it's also on the top 100 list of bars in Paris.

He: Oh, no. It's top 10. I've been coming here ever since it opened. Some friends brought me here when it first opened.

Realizing he thought himself too cool about all things cool about Paris, I returned to my meal and studying the names of the Seine's quais and bridges. As part of his sharing his coolness with me though, he recommended I check out Le Baratin, which he was right on, based on Le Fooding's drooling over how great it is, per this review.

One day a lunch reservation falls through. I figure this is a sign to check out Frenchie to Go. The raving about Frenchie goes on and on. And true, I love the wine bar. But it's almost Frenchie fatigue. I head out to the tiny rue du Nil off of rue Aboukir. Just to see what the fuss is all about for this addition to the Frenchie empire.

I had to eat crow. Frenchie to Go is fresh, superbly prepared food, in a simple and laidback venue. I ordered fish and chips. And a glass of red natural wine. The drill is you just go and sit down after ordering. There is a table off to the side with a large pitcher of water and glasses for you to help yourself. You do not get a number or anything. Somehow the someone who brings the food out knows how to find you.

I installed myself at one of the small community tables/counters in the doorways. I like the picture this writer includes on his write-up. As I sit down, the two French guys on the other side of this counter are in the middle of exclaiming to a third friend, who had just walked up, how great the food is: especially the Reuben.(Wendy Lyn at The Paris Kitchen has a spectacular picture of it here.)

My fish and chips arrives. I stared at it a while. I could not believe how fantastic it looked. They point out my fish and chips to their friend as yet another example of how stupendous the food is.

As happiness descends as I break into the crispy fish and steam flies out, and I start dipping the hot steaming crispy white fish into the rustic tartar sauce-esque sauce and the smashed peas, I can't help but interject myself into their conversation.

"Excuse me, if you don't mind my bothering you to ask ... you're French, and you love this food, what is it about the food that you like so much?"

This conversation-starter was more successful than the one at Aux Deux Amis. We ended up talking for at least an hour. About French politics, the French health care system and home care benefits, attitude differences between the French and Americans, great public spaces in Paris, their travels in the US, my travels in France, my favorite places in Paris, their favorite places in Paris - and new recommendations for me of hip new hotels, public spaces, etc. I ordered desserts for us to share so I could taste a little bit of all of them: the chocolate doughnut, the rhubarb beignet, and the brownie. (We liked the whole hazelnuts in the brownie; I liked the intense chocolate in it, but we left it alone otherwise: too dry. Preferred the rhubarb beignet, but I was not blown away by any of the ones we tried.)

I mentioned how exhausting Paris is contrasted against the heartbreaking gorgeousness of it.

They agreed: Paris is exhausting. You have to get away from it every now and then - to breathe more deeply - and then come back to appreciate it. And once you can't see the beauty anymore in Paris, it's time to leave.

For them, growing up and living their adult lives in Paris, the attachment is seeing their personal histories as played out in various corners of Paris. Could not agree more.

It was not so hard to leave Paris this time, trip no. 19 (that return to Paris after Nantes and Angers counts as a separate trip). I just consider this a little time away to breathe.

Signage at Candelaria the last Sunday in Paris, over killer Sunday brunch "cocktail" that included absinthe AND mezcal

07/01/2013

Around Jaures metro stop...around the quais and stairways to one of the bridges up and over the Canal St. Martin.

"Jazz brunch" at Le Reservoir this morning was forgettable. When asked a week ago when reserving whether I wanted the 11:30 am or 4:30 pm seating, I figured that meant the music would have two sets too. Silly. Getting there for 11:30 meant waiting an hour for the opening act...nice enough - not jazz by any means - and then finding out -- when I decided to bail because it was a beautiful day and this was lame -- that the music advertised for the brunch that day and the reason I did this in the first place, Soul Legend, would be at 2:30 pm. No need to stay inside on a beautiful day.

Thank goodness later on, after an adrenal-system boosting nap back in the studio, I stumbled on Le Camion Qui Fume's site when I was looking for Tombées du Camion, the darling store with its vintage wares displayed at the Saturday market in Place des Abbesses.

Back in David Lebovitz's writing about these burgers and this truck...I recall something about long lines of devoted groupies. Le Camion Qui Fume (literally "the truck that smokes") is Paris's first high-end food food truck. It took a while to convince the French public that a burger could be this good, and could be served this deliciously from a truck driving around Paris. The convincing is all done now.

With Quai de Valmy, what the web site says is the site for the truck at 19-21h today, just a 4-stop metro ride away, and some edgy art center, Point Ephemere, being nearby for eating the burger and drinking some boisson, this was a no-brainer for the dinner plan.

The very funky Point Ephemere: it photographs better than it looks in real life.

Like Franklin Barebecue in Austin, Texas, the Camion has stated hours for wherever they may be on a certain day, but when they run out of food, they are done for the day.

A burger is 8 euros. A burger and side is 10 euros. Include the cheap beer I got at the nearby funky venue of Point Ephemere, and the side of coleslaw I ordered at the Camion just to try it, and this was all of 14 euros thereabouts.

The Camion Qui Fume Drill.

Here are the steps to getting, enjoying, and savoring this burger. (Before leaving home though, bring more napkins.)

Stand in line.

Place order. This requires you to pick one out of the specialty burger items on the menu. I picked "barbeque." Here is the entire menu from the site:

Once another paper receipt is generated with your number by a little machine connected to the order-taker guy's iPad, go stand in another line to wait for your number to be called once your perfectly cooked dripping juicy burger and side are delivered to you in a brown paper bag.

While waiting, enjoy listening to the music in the sound system over the nice speakers embedded in the truck's awning. I heard while around there AC/DC, Joan Jett, and Shooting Holes by Twin Shadow.

Scurry away with brown paper bag and find a someplace to sit.

Take burger out carefully. Observe its heft. It is really heavy. There is a lot of meat in this burger. And it is drippy juicy. I did not know a burger could emit so much in the way of savory sauce-like meaty juiciness. I cannot believe it is only 8 euros. There is a five-burger limit per person (in case you are taking away for friends back at the office--I cannot even imagine trying to eat this more than a few minutes after it is made).

Notice how the well-formed thick bacon is critical to this burger. Note the big chunk of it teasingly hanging out the side here. It is really thick. Like chewy savory pork fat thickness. [It is, in many ways, like that spectaular cured ham that Melvin's Deli Comfort over in Austin serves on another luscious gooey sandwich, that croque monsieur, which also resulted in a lot of finger-licking during a taste teste.]

Enjoy burger while sitting on metal rail thing along a (not-so-pretty as other stretches) stretch of the Canal St. Martin.

Start planning the upcoming week's eating around when the truck will be next.

Take long walk to redress some of what you have just inhaled. (My long walk included checking out the peniches - or house boats, parked along the quais of the Canal St. Martin.)

I walk all the way back to the Montmartre 'hood. [Note: Do not take this walk that tracks the Line 2 metro from Jaures to Anvers at night (the "Barbes" quartier). And this is not to say that I commend anyone to do this walk at any time. It's not too scenic but for the gorgeous metro line that is above ground here and the recently refurbished Luxor movie theatre.]

There is something to be said for Sundays in Paris when the day gets off to a really slow start, builds up to people everyone on the terraces, kids playing, and very little is open.

I am glad I had to change that return date back to Austin: I have one more Sunday in Paris before heading home.

06/30/2013

Last night while "dining" out in Paris (loose term; so not good--it was just consumption of food for energy...but I knew what I was in for), I realized not everyone cares that they are eating badly in Paris.

I also get now why my French friends seem so, at first glance, or a first interaction over food, "critical." Critical here mean discerning, analytical. A huge cultural difference between "the French" and "Americans" is how we deal with analytical methodologies. In France (generally), it is appropriate and expected and part of the cultural fabric to opine on the cheese, the bread, the meat - and call it bad when it is bad. Or simply offer a suggestion that perhaps it is a little too ripe, or not ripe enough, or a little overdone on the baguette. Etc.

We in the US tend to be, generally, more polite. We agree sometimes for the sake of polite conversation. Sometimes. But now I get it on the food part. Once you have been immersed -- and I feel that way going into week 3 -- into eating a different way, in a region (Loire Valley) overflowing with exquisite local, local produce and wines, you start to discern fine differences. Differences between this wine and that wine; differences between this wine with that fish, and that wine with this charcuterie, etc. And of course the astounding differences between good bread and bad, factory-produced bread.

Terrace at current favorite restaurant...outside of Paris: le Favre d''Anne. Rainy noon time so could not dine outside.

I know this is because of such meals at Le Favre d'Anne in Angers, beautiful sparkling wine appreciation time at Bouvet Ladubay, and surprisingly great service and food at the Provence Caffe in Angers after the theatre. Last night I realized I finally understood what the foodie French call "industrial" cuisine.

I did not get into the nearby really good restaurant, MIroir, for dinner here in Montmartre (the no reservation thing). I knew it was a longshot. I went early and tried to use the "une personne, toute seule" (this really is what they ask me; it is translated literally as "just you, all alone?"), as a selling point. No go. Off I went to select a random place on the Rue des Abbesses.

I like to think of myself as the French culture wiki for foreigners. I hope to be a good ambassador for Texas and the US in being a good tourist in France -- even in hard-to-please Paris -- and I hope to help make France -- even Paris -- more approachable, manageable, and enjoyable for the uninitiated.

And at this time of year in Paris, there are many uninitiated.

The Saturday flea market "brocantes" in the Place des Abbesses. Photogenic wares.

I randomly selected for dinner Le Relais Gascon. It had a cute, lively outdoor terrace area. All I wanted was something in the red meat category to keep up the iron and protein intake.

On my left, I see a woman having French Onion Soup for a starter. That's never a good idea. It is way too heavy to include over there in the "entrée" column. It makes sense though when I figure out she and her hubby are American. And next to them, another couple, super happy, without a word of French, using all sorts of US colloquialisms that I know have to be impossible to understand for the server.

My food arrives. It is industrial cuisine. I expected this. Nothing special. Just meat, some type of reconstituted sauce, and some onions thrown in for good measure. I am not outraged. I am just glad for tasty enough red meat and vegetables.

I look over, and the woman who started with the French Onion Soup is having served to her one of the enormous salads that I have seen coming out of the kitchen to many people. The whole top layer of it is covered in thinly sliced (yummy-looking) sautéed potatoes. I then later hear the woman on the left starting to discuss with her husband her choice for the French Onion Soup before the big salad.

I just have to intervene in their conversation now. I am really concerned about the quality of their food experience in France and their impression of "French food." I do not want them going home to the US thinking this meal was an example of French cuisine. There is good cause for this concern because the hubby was having a "cassoulet" that did not even have a crusty top layer on it. It was all soupy with some sausage floating around (I was looking on in horror). This is so wrong.

I tell them, once I apologize for butting in, as I could not help overhearing the conversation: "You realize, right, that this is not good French food? I mean, places like Miroir over on the nearby street, that's the good stuff. You generally need a reservation." And yes, typically with a big main dish salad like that, it's too much if you are having onion soup as a starter. Usually not done that way."

Oh, he says, "What I had was good: I had the cassoulet." [I figure out quickly that I need to cool it and not say, uh, yea, I saw that nasty thing you were eating and let me tell you, that was not cassoulet.]

Ok well, ok, as long as you are having a good time, I say. We talk some about what they have seen and done.

Realizing they don't know what a cassoulet is, and do not realize or seem to care that they are having bad food, but are having a good time in Paris nonetheless, I am relieved. But I am alarmed because I am a little shocked that people come to Paris not really caring or thinking about the food.

The sweet little Place Charles Dullin, Montmartre, with its theatre, just across the street from my building.

Their meal ends. I watch as they try to settle up the bill without a word of French. They are told no credit cards. But how can this be. Surely the server is being really awful and giving them a hard time for the no-French thing.

But no. The French woman on my right also gets the same rejection when she hands the server her VISA ("carte bleue" here). She is stunned, rightfully so, and indignant when they say no credit cards. She wonders where on earth they have this displayed to show their customers. The server points to a tiny chalkboard sign behind the bar and some writing at the very bottom of the plastic menu. I am indignant as well. This seems sketchy this cash only thing. I chime in on this conversation as well.

To make a point, I pay my bill mostly in change. Good chance to get rid of most of those annoying centimes.

The American using the colloquialisms says to the owner, when that couple learns this same information: "That's bullshit." Very not effective to use American comebacks when you are in a foreign country.

I have a nice conversation with the French woman. I ask her where she is from (i.e., which part of Paris; whether she is from the quartier). She is from the 15eme. She came over to this part of town to get some fabric.

So you may want to avoid Le Relais Gascon if you are running low on cash. Go hang out at Le Sancerre (not as "funky" as it used to be....but very "bobo" as they say: see here, e.g., or Le Vrai Paris. (They take credit cards, surely.) And I will try not to eavesdrop on your conversation and correct your dining experience.

Apero time over at Le Sancerre, with good vantage point at the bar; no room on the terrace outside.

06/23/2013

Paris can be tricky for food adventures because of the need to make reservations at most really good restaurants (keeping in mind "restaurant" does not include wine bars (many of which are fantastic eating options) or the omnipresent cafe).

If you are serious about your food experiences in Paris, and you have been studying the blogs because of this interest, you need to just get over it and deal with the fact you have to make a reservation and plan your day accordingly. Or just take your chances. (As Wendy Lyn of the Paris Kitchenreports, some places are so difficult to get into they are not even answering the phone anymore to take your reservation---we're talking like 300 calls a day.)

[One reader of a certain blog complained on line about this practice in Paris. She complained about how can she possibly know what she will be doing and when on a certain day to make a reservation in advance. Another reader responded: "When in Rome...when in Paris..." Well said.]

Take this reservation issue, and combine it with many cool places being closed on Sundays and/or Mondays in Paris, and you need to have a Venn diagram drawn up to figure out what to do and where to go and how to get a decent meal.

Paris by Mouth, my go-to guide for where to eat in Paris depending on where I am on a particular day (it includes a nifty list of their favorites in each arrondissement), is indispensable if it is Sunday or Monday. I look for where I am, or want to be, and check out what my limited range of choices is for that day.

And so it was on Monday, June 17, I found myself late, again, getting out of the apartment. Emails took some time; the coffee ritual took some time; shopping down the street took some time. Thus, I was still there in my eclectic hood that is the 11eme at the lunch hour. The super hip elite spots of the 11eme were out of the question because of the day and the reservation thing (Bistrot Paul Bert, le 6 Paul Bert, Septime).

As I consider Le Verre Volé, over near Republique/Canal St. Martin, I realize I did not care to walk over there, and I recall they might require a reservation (that darn reservation thing again), even though they are "just" a (great) wine bar.

I notice a never-before-read-about place on the Paris by Mouth list for the 11eme: CheZaline. Sandwich place, unique, casual, the write-up reads: but what sold me was that (1) it was owned by a woman who was previously at the well-loved Le Verre Volé and (ii) it was about 45 seconds from where I was sitting in my apartment. Done.

When I arrive, nobody is there pretty much. Noon is rather early for the French lunch schedule.

This is no ordinary sandwich place I notice straight away.

The case is full of abundantly fresh items -- evident from the fresh herbs overflowing out of practically every item in the case. There are two very young, darling, quick-moving, efficient women running the show in this tiny place. I am transfixed by the sandwich one of the women is making. She makes a second one. Hoping I can frame my question without drooling, because I was starting to salivate just looking at the sandwich prep, I ask her which sandwich it is that she is making. She tells me, and I say when she has a moment, that is exactly what I would have as well. It is escalope de veau - or breaded crispy veal scallopini - but this translation does not come close to describing how mesmerizing this sandwich is: it just looked pretty. Exemplary bread, fresh green lettuce and herb salad....

Did I mention the Paris by Mouth guide also touts the place for its simple, yet lovely and small selection of natural wines. Another plus. And the New York Times reported on this little sandwich place's opening in glowing terms, as many other French foodie writers have as well, confirming just how lucky I feel to be living right around the corner from this place. I love how the Paris food resource, Le Fooding, reports as a "plus" for this place the fact it is open on Mondays. The Monday thing is an issue for Parisians as well.

Things I love about this place immediately: sit at the counter inside, serve-yourself water from a pitcher that looks like an awesome vintage Saturday morning garage sale find, and a stack of clean shiny glasses for the water.

But this sandwich. One Paris write-up in Le Figaro of the place and what Delphine Zampetti, its owner, has done within the tiny confines of what used to be a small butcher shop, calls her sandwiches: "des sandwichs d’une nouvelle génération." A whole new generation of sandwiches/sandwiches for a new generation. Indeed.

Bread is the ideal, for me, of a great baguette: crusty, chewy, richly coloredbaguette tradition on the outside, super crispy, yet thin crust. The insides are perfect for absorbing the garlic and olive oil stuffs that are part of the mix of what makes this sandwich great.

The meat is an escalope de veau, as mentioned, but the secret "sauce" here is a mystery mix of tabbouleh, fresh herbs, garlic (lots), and finely, finely chopped hard-boiled egg.

I am not alone in my praise of this sandwich. In this blog by Rachel Khoo, she says this is the best sandwich she has had in a long time in Paris.

As I sit at my prime seat at the counter (there are only 4 bar stools - get there early at an uncool hour as I did to get 1 of them), I watch the line form out the door around the outdoor tables. Obviously the place is a huge hit.

Next time you are annoyed in Paris by the Sunday/Monday/reservation dilemma, consider it a challenge to think more creatively about where to eat.

06/20/2013

Imagine the Airbnb platform. Imagine if Airbnb were applied to the dinner party concept. For those of you who don't know or don't do Airbnb (and frankly I'm not all that keen on it; have never figured out how to work it), this is Greek to you. But this new non-restaurant dining-out concept in Paris can still work for you. If you are a certain kind of world traveler, as in an interested-in-the-world-and-people traveler, then Cedric Giorgi's Paris-based food startup Cookening may be just the thing for you. A friend and I checked it out this past Sunday night. And it just so happened that the BBC was doing a piece that night for a technology show -- and filming us at a Cookening dinner -- about the "cookening" concept.

(Paris, late June 2013)

Cookening, which just launched four weeks ago, is the brainchild of Cedric (and his co-founders). The company, whose name connotes "cook" and "cooking" and "evening," has created a platform for travelers to enjoy a home-cooked meal, in a Parisian person or couple's home, with other guests from other countries. Part of the magic here is the multi-cultural interchange and dialogue that occurs over dinner, including lessons about French gastronomy and the traditions that infuse everyday eating in France. But of course a common language is necessary, or none of that can happen very well. As our BBC friends did not speak French, English was spoken at our dinner.

2. Note the countries and cities in which you may find a host at whose house you may dine. There are possibilities in Spain, the Netherlands, and Italy. Paris is the only city I am familiar with for this procedure, so I will refer only to how this works for Paris.

3. Once you pick the city, then you get to see the selection of various hosts. There are profiles. This is part of the "sharing economy" after all, where trust is important (as in the Airbnb culture), so it is important for folks to feel comfortable about where they will be eating and with whom. There also are costs for certain types of meals at certain hosts' houses listed. The hosts decide what type of meal they want to prepare, and then price it accordingly. I knew I wanted to try out Cookening.com with Cedric and his adorable wife Jennifer, so I did not shop around at all on price. The price for a dinner with him was 36 euros, total, per person (including the 6 euros per person administrative fee).

There are other types of dining options, including brunch, a "tea time," or a simple "apero" (apertif time), with the simpler formats (such as tea time) available for a lower range of prices.

4. Pick a few potential dates that work for you from the ones the host has indicated as available.

5. Wait to hear from the host and whether he/she "accepts" the invitation. It is not a done deal for dinner until the host accepts.

6. Once the host accepts, the payment logistic become relevant. I was able to pay with a credit card, not just PayPal.

7. Contact information for the host will be given upon payment. No binding agreement is reached, however, until you read the fine print and agree to the terms and conditions, of which there are many--not surprising, and for good reasons.

Now the really good part: the meal. Dinner hour in France is more like 8 p.m., and believe me, when in France this seems very ordinary, and on the early side actually for restaurant dining.

We began with an aperitif, a lovely tradition in the French culture of a before-dinner drink and some small tasty items. It is culturally ingrained in the French that you do not drink without something to eat.

Cedric and Jennifer had selected a Loire Valley sparkling wine, of Domaine de Portaille, which allowed for conversation about sparkling wines in various countries, this particular wine, and the beauty of the Loire Valley region.

(Host and Cookening.com co-founder Cedric Giorgi...regaling us with a story about the meal preparation as we are about done with aperitif time)

Cedric had the menu written on a chalkboard and brought it out, post aperitif, to give us some history and context for the dishes.

The first course was lovely, light, elegant - yet rich. A bavarois of salmon and asparagus. The bavarois refers technically to the creamy fluffy interior, but there was a very fresh piece of thinly sliced but still substantial salmon molded over it to form a classic and very "French-looking" presentation. Tasting proved it divine: rich and creamy, yet light and fresh at the same time.

One of my very favorite French foods made it to the menu: confit de canard, or duck confit. (There is an option on the site to select the foods you like and to indicate any food dislikes or food allergies. I mentioned I liked foie gras and confit de canard.)

Cedric makes a beautiful presentation of of the confit and the accompanying potatoes, on this platter that we learn he and Jennifer purchased during a trip to Morocco.

More conversation ensues. Including about the red wine especially selected -- whereupon we discuss the challenges to les Francais when they order wine elsewhere. French wine is organized and named by region (Bordeaux, Beaujolais, Bourgogne). In the US, ordering a wine requires identifying a particular grape (Chardonnay, Cabernet Sauvignon, Pinot Grigio).

The topics of conversation ranged from history of food markets in London (I invited a food historian, Robyn, to check out Cookening with me) to the French attitude towards foie gras and the making of a confit.

It is appropriate that portions are moderate because a French dinner has many courses. I could have had more of that tender, tasty, moist duck, but pacing is necessary. I did help myself to a small second helping of steaming hot ratatouille.

Next came the cheese course. This generated a completely new converation, including learning about what types of cheese Cedric and Jennifer like and why, and how they selected the cheese for this cheese plate. From another dinner guest we learn childhood stories about Middle Eastern food traditions and his own cheese-making experiences.

Still not done with the dinner! There is dessert.

Dessert is simple yet heavenly. Strawberries. But not just any stawberries. These are Gariguette strawberries, smaller and with intense sweet flavor. They are prepared simply, with fresh lemon juice and mint. The result is a tart, faintly herbal yet charmingly sweet little sauce over the berries. (If you see these strawberries at a market in France, run, do not walk, and get some. Even if it means being a little pushy and overly assertive at the market. They are really something special.)

Alongside the fresh Gariguette strawberries, a huge bowl piled high with freshly made madeleines. I am reminded I should get out that madeleine bakeware at home.

More conversation, and slowly the evening winds down. The BBC team sets up for some final scenes they need. We start saying goodnight all around. We all promise to catch up and follow up some other time. And I am pretty sure we actually will.

06/15/2013

(Fountains and the sound of bubbling water onto pavement are a nice touch for an outdoor market)

I figured I would just check out the nearby Marché Richard Lenoir from home base for this week, my humble flat in the 11eme. Take some pictures. And so I did, agog at the green trees, the fountains, the bustling Friday morning market-goers. I ogled the scarves. Did not buy. Resistance melted when I saw Made in France espadrilles.

Finding the right size amidst this system was - interesting. I spent 15 minutes looking for a particular coloration of a certain striped espadrille in a size 40, which I thought was my size. I finally asked if I could try on the shoes - the monsieur said, yes, of course - there's a chair right behind here. I tried on the size 40s I had finally found in 3 colors and patterns I loved. Too big. I'm a 39. Start over rifling through the bins for the 39s in just the right color combination of stripes. I end up with 2 pairs.

Having broken through the shopping resistance barrier (a friend calls this first blood--that first purchase that paves the way for the domino effect of more, and more purchases), it dawned on me I really did need to buy some food at the Marché. I go back to the bread guy. Those baguettes tradition had really made an impression on me when I sauntered by earlier.

Mais non!

By the time I get back to him, he is starting to pack up! I am barely back in time to secure the baguette tradition - but also a sampling of some of his specialty breads. I am a sucker for dark whole grain breads with nuts and fruits. Toasted, with butter - oh yea. I see one can purchase just a slice or two. When the clock is ticking to the market shutting down, one finally makes quick decisions. Unfortunately, my decisions ended up with my getting more bread than a single person living in Paris for a week really needs. I now have sliced whole wheat bread from the grocery store, a baguette tradition, two slices of that gorgeous what bread with nuts and, my favorite, the one with figs, raisins and nuts.

I realize if he is closing, then the other stands might be shutting down too. And so I start to panic. It dawns on me I really do need some food. Bananas, strawberries, some of those beautiful little mini-peaches or abricots I've been seeing at a stand here and there. I realize I should have done the produce first, the espadrilles second.

I start walking briskly. Where were those strawberries I liked? Sure, most everyone has strawberries. But the purpose of the market is to shop around, compare prices and quality. I had not done this from the outset. Now I was stuck there in the middle of the market - a large one - wondering where I saw those gorgeous strawberries??

I go to the organic stand. Surely these are lovely and high quality.

Yes, they were. They were also 6.5 euros. Uh, non. That seemed like a lot. Surely I could do better. But in fact there was no time to do better. I randomly pick a stand and get 2 bananas - and some avocados - and some apples.

Oh such a mistake. I forgot to tell him which ones I wanted. So I really have no one to blame but myself for the awful overripe avocados (managed enough out of 3 of them to make a salad) that I ended up purchasing because I did not take charge of that situation.

Did not like the look of his strawberries at all. I scurry along, briskly briskly as the stands are coming down here and there. Finally get the strawberries. Laden with several bags now, I decide I should stand in line for whatever everyone else is standing in line for at the sandwich stand. I am so laden with packages, I drop my bread, and a nice man behind me tells me I'm about to lose my "plan" (my booklet of Paris by Arrondissement) so I thank him and adjust all my packages and purse and backpack.

Yes, it was the bread that caught my eye. For someone trying to do paleo high-protein in Paris...well that's not going so great...this was not a great idea. But the bread is just a small thinly crisped on the grill vehicle for tasty insides it would turn out, so not a bad carb experiene in the end it would turn out.

The lesson learned here at the Lebanese sandwich stand applies to the producer stands at the market:

1. Follow the crowd can be a good rule. If no one is standing in line at one particular vendor, there's probably a reason.

2. Be assertive. I watched several sandwiches being made and asked about them before deciding on mine. Did not want to waste this opportunity. Same goes for picking out the produce. Take your time. Chat. I forgot this rule because I was being, well, American. I started to rush. Bad.

If they know you're a visiting tourist, just in and out for this one shopping trip for entertainment purposes, they really do not care about their reputation and selling you something less than stellar. You are not going to be a frequent customer, so why bother making sure you will come again by providing you with the best of the best of the vendor's produce. I get this.

3. Be assertive. Ask for a sample. My strawberries turned out to be fine. Not perfect, but not awful (like those avocados). And the breakfast this morning (day 3) of those strawberries, almond yogurt drizzled on top from last-minute stop in the Casino grocery store, chopped almonds on top -- while the TSF jazz radion station is playing and I am drinking coffee...all good.

06/13/2013

(Entry through courtyard and into building where my sunny apartment in the 11eme is located)

For this France trip, which, despite the strikes, got underway officially today when I landed around 6:45 a.m. Paris time at CDG, I forgot my toothbrush, packed only two
bras—one white and one black—for 4 types of short-sleeve and sleeveless white t-shirts. This would not
be a problem but for it is a three-week stay.
Telecommuting is a wonderful thing. I found the local Monoprix - love - and took care of those issues.

I soon learned that my flight to Paris, cancelled just two days ago due to the strike, was suddenly reinstated (just the day before I left) because the air traffic control strike ended June 13--today--to be followed immediately by a train strike. Train strike is code for all transportation in Paris besides taxis is not working per usual, or at a snail's pace if at all: metros, RER, the TGV, etc. I learn all this from the man sitting next to me on the plane, who flies every few weeks to see his new (of 2 years) French wife: they met as pen pals when he was learning French, and that exercise was considered the thing to do to help him learn French. He went to visit her. He got swine flu. She took care of him. Voila. He says his French is terrible, and he has given up. They speak English.

I think to get concerned about getting a taxi from the airport, as they should be in high demand with the RER commuter trains and Metro affected, but opt instead to spend the balance of the trip with a good cry with a tiny plastic bottle of red wine and Crazy Stupid Love on the high-def touch screen.

On arrival, no problemo with les taxis. I decide, with 4 hours to kill while awaiting the apartment's state of readiness, I will go to a comforting comfortable place where I can charge all my devices, get a fantastic bathroom break in, and enjoy lovely coffee and service before I head to the unknown territory of the 11th Arrondissement. This venue of choice would be the Hotel Burgundy, where friend Maureen and I have had some lovely phone-charging champagne or coffee-drinking sessions in between meetings. Getting there was a whole other issue.

With all of Paris and its regions' inhabitants taking to their cars given the no regular train service available, the route was packed. Crawling along at a snail's pace, I begin to fear the fare will consume the week's grocery budget.

The driver and I start talking. For an hour. His wife has a fabulous job at a big corporate American company, with global operations, where she is in charge of various highly technical import-export regulation matters. They realized early on that 2 careers was crazy with caring for the only child, a daughter. He would adjust to his wife's career. He made it so he woke up every morning, very very early, to finish in time to pick up his daughter at her school, a school just 300 meters from their house. He did this every day. It was he who decided, when she was 12, that perhaps he would wait for her a little off to the side somewhere. She was 12 now after all. "Papa" - she chided him, why are you doing this. He went back to his usual practice. He at times tried to alter the routine, but every school year, same routine. This was of course really hard on the working mom, but for her daughter, amidst this wonderful teamwork for parenting, this was an optimal arrangement. Two difficult careers and a child just do not mix well, he said. That leads to problems.... I said I knew something about that. He continued this tradition with his daughter until she ended high school, at that same school, just 300 meters from their house.

I find out he is from Valencia, so we speak some Spanish. And talk about Sevilla, and the dialects and Catalan. And we talk about cabrito.

His daugher is now married to her high school sweetheart (who also has parents who are French (the mom) and Spanish (the dad). This cute couple used to live a few hundred meters away from her dad (my now totally intriguing taxi driver) and her mom, that high-powered also multi-lingual wife of my taxi driver. This only child, who now has a precious baby boy--the first, and maybe only, grandchild--then moved back next door to her parents.

(Cafe de l'Industrie: will go back; found it while I was lost looking for lunch restaurant)

Now, as retirement for this world traveler taxi driver looms near for his wife, the days look even more charming. With his one and only grandson next door, he will now do for his only grandson what he did for his only daughter. He will take him to school, the same school his daugher attended all those years, and, as with his daughter, he will wait after school for his grandson and walk him home. He and his wife could have opted for the big "terrain," the big house, but they "live small." And they travel: California, Wisconsin, Bryce Canyon, Yosemite, New York, Boston, Florida -- and of course back to Spain every summer as well. We talk about where he should visit in Texas. I marvel at the wonder of getting this driver and having this conversation about a special man's charmed "small" happy life.

I arrive at l'Hotel Burgundy. I have to explain no, not checking in. I, uh, have a rendez-vous later on nearby and want to have breakfast and a coffee (and use your lovely WC facilities and your Wi-Fi as well). Alas the lounge is not available, just the breakfast room. I am surrounded by Fendi strollers and demanding super wealthy and very young hotel patrons wanting many different varieties of cooking methods done for their eggs.

Service is impeccable at a 5-star boutique hotel. And so it was in summoning the taxi and loading everything up for me in the taxi. The driver is intrigued by my 3-week stay, my business plans - he totally nailed the business side of my trip in like 12 seconds - and he is amused at the change in scenery I am doing here with the taxi ride from the swanky swanky Place Vendome area over to the more real-life 11eme.

We find the little street that will be home for 8 days.

The apartment agent meets me in time to manage my suitcase up the two flights of stairs.

The drill was that I would leave the bags and wander around for another 2 hours while Sebastien, the agent, finished the cleaning of the apartment (he already was letting me check in earlier than the rules say). We go over the little booklet of information about local sources for wine, food, cheese, and where to not buy wine (no, never from the large commercial entities--go local; go local and smaller producer), and the best restaurants for very reasonable prices.

This turns into a conversation about the ways "industrial cuisine" has made its way into Paris restaurants and how to avoid bad food in Paris. One tip: Read the reviews - but pay attention to the bad ones, not the good ones (and dismiss the ones from Americans who sound like they do not know Paris. Have to agree with him there).

I also get a lesson on the chef/owner of restaurants in the area and more on organic wine and the purpose of preservatives in wine, etc.

(View from interior courtyard close to my building, looking out onto rue Popincourt)

Not that he is too different from any other French person who cares about where his food is from and the "correctness" of the pricing as to the quality, but I am taken aback by this impromptu food and wine conversation and the gravitas of it. I decide I will set out for one of the few places that make his cut for the small booklet for the apartment. I decide it will be "Le Petit Cheval de Manege." I stumbled around in a daze, literally, getting lost along the way, and finally end up there.

(front of restaurant, but Google images for this place - better than my pics)

Sebastien was spot on for this place. And, it turns out, my most reliable food review food blog Paris by Mouth is all over it as well. For good reason.

There is a very small "market" menu, but I still go for what I think might be especially good: the "formule" of the day - a set dish or two for a bargain price. A mere 15 euros for a starter (l'entree) and the principal dish.

Candidly, I was not sure what I ordered. Was losing consciousness because of exhaustion. I did order a glass of Bordeaux. That I could do and remember.

Apparently I ordered a warm salad with spizy homemade chorizo and capers. Good bread is served therewith--a good sign that this is indeed a quality place.

Shock. The young chef comes out and checks on me. He tells me how to eat this salad to get the best of it and all the juices of the chorizo and its drippings mixing into the salad's minimal vinaigrette. He asks me if the dish is pleasing to me. After I get over being agog at how young, and cute, he is, I speak: Uh, yea, totally (en francais of course).

Next: fish of some kind with tasty grilled and flavorful spicy sauced fennell. One bite and I get why this made Sebastien's cut.

Crispy on that outer part, flaky and tender and piping hot on the inside. I melt with contentment. I realize I may have to get dessert. What else can this guy do?!

But no. I am done. I get the check. I assure self I will come back. I walk home and trust I am just right on the timing for me to crawl into bed and deal with my sleep deprivation.

Sebastien was just leaving. I have to de-brief him on my meal.

He is horrified that I had a Bordeaux with the fish - I should have known better than to tell him - and, worse, I said I pretty much drink red with anything. I decide I need to rebuild my credibility. I tell him: did not know what I was going to eat when I ordered (well, that's a problem right there though) and the fish did have a hearty rich sauce that made it maybe not too wrong. I did concede the Bordeaux as the red was a little heavy. We discuss what fish may be ok for a red wine.

05/30/2013

This is a term that refers to the fastest growing business cluster in
Europe, but the term just does not convey how hip, energized, and energizing this pocket
of East London really is. Tech City is not a set geographical unit with official boundaries. It is an area of creative energy, a cluster
of startups and the burgeoning ecosystem supporting it, ordained collectively "Tech City." Hackney is the East London borough in which this cluster of
energy is situated.

This little borough blasted onto Austin's SxSW
scene in 2013 with “Hackney House” – a brand to be reckoned with, more on that
later. That happening of Hackney House cemented on this end of the Atlantic Austin and Hackney’s
“friendship city” agreement--a multi-faceted collaboration-type agreement between two “cities” that
interact like long-lost soul mates. Let me be clear on just how atypical this
arrangement is. Austin is a big city. It was just named the 11th largest
city in the United States. Hackney is
not a “city” – it is an area, a city, within a city - the immense multicultural city of London. It is a borough. It has its own governing council, yes, but as one observer who knows Hackney stated on seeing Hackney
House set up in Austin: for the little geographical vicinity of Hackney to set
out across the Atlantic and stake out a claim with another city in the US is akin to South Austin’s
entering the international arena as its own brand and marketing it.

(Site of a previous Hackney House in Hackney: now re-used, again, as a food trailer venue; love the chain link fence design; the space glows red at night)

A
neighborhood within Hackney is Shoreditch.
Pronounce it more like “shortage.”
I was not sure what to make of this Hackney business development/connection-making trip with other Austin business types,
a trip centered around a digital economy conference, Digital Shoreditch, now in
its third year but with aspirations to be a SxSW. But I went because of the potential French
connection. Maybe I can evolve the French business from and through Hackney. Or so it was pitched to me. Good enough for me. I was in.
I had no idea what I was really in for.

(Pub on Charlotte Street)

As we
know, I am a longtime, deep to the core of my being, Francophile—since seventh grade, and despite being raised deep in the bowels of West Texas. The Paris aesthetics, the French language –
all of that combined was for me the apex of culinary and cultural sophistication. London....Never gave it a whole lot of thought. Sure, I visited a couple of times, but never
got a real sense of it. I certainly was not in love with it.

What was
it about this short 4-day trip that got this dyed-in-the-wool
Francophile so gobsmacked about Shoreditch—and had her sitting in a pub with
friends and a half pint of pale English ale.
And loving it! I have thought
long and hard on this through my jet lag, on what makes Hackney, and Shoreditch
in particular, different--and on a palpable, visceral level.

(Signage at Mother at The Trampery; The Trampery may epitomize the convergence philosophy running amok in this area as well as the Hackney-Austin collaborative friendship city relationship)

It is, I
have decided, this: the emotional and intellectual appeal of the jarring contrast of the grit of an inner-city urban landscape alongside sophisticated yet simple, creative design.

For example: the above street art. Contrast that against the chic lines of simple yet refreshing design in a newly renovated pub (Princess of Shoreditch...yes, I’m talking about you), with motley array of wood tables, scattered throughout the space comfortably, flickering
votive candles everywhere, and the building set in the same landscape as a tumbling brick façade reused as canvas for street art.

Shoreditch is very urban, but still downright cozy. It seems almost village-like in its streets, walkways--and shockingly bright green grassy squares lined with wrought iron ornamental fences. It has maintained a sense of neighborhood, even amidst the tech startups and the hard edges of some of the new urban designs, such as the Boxpark--the "World's First pop-up Mall"--single small retail stores, each one fit into train boxcars stacked side by side.

The pubs, the cafes, the up and coming artisans in their experimental exhibit spaces co-exist peacefully, for now it seems, with the investor & startup CEO meetings taking place
here and there all around them.

The
unhemmed edges of Hackney are still out there for sure. That is the impression I took away from some conversations. But clearly there are no frayed hems around such places as Albion, a high-end French-style epicerie, crazy busy at the lunch hour with families as well as business types.

(Albion...where I enjoyed purchasing several colorful tins of tea, as I started to be so sad about leaving)

(Boundary Street, making my way back across town to City University from Albion...should have taken a cab...)

Developers are moving in now with more super high-end, small-scale luxury
boutique hotels and apartments, building around and within and integrating centuries-old brick
structures that regulations (thankfully) prohibit demolishing.

(View from inside The Old Shoreditch Station, a coffee shop/artists' collective/exhibition space, where I so enjoyed my first Cheese Toastie)

Indeed,
the residential/hotel real estate craze is so intense that it threatens to
destroy what allowed “Tech City” to happen (in part) in the first place: cheap spaces in which to create and innovate. Part of fighting the good fight now involves gathering the resources, political and financial I imagine, to preserve the old abandoned
warehouses for commercial space and not see them transformed into lofts for the affluent hipster. See this one for example.

(On our walk around the co-working spaces, all clustered around near the all-day seminar at the Open Data Institute by the folks at UK Trade & Investment--view of the gleaming London financial district in the background)

Just ten
years ago, they tell us, this place was nothing. And in fact, there are still some places on
the periphery you would not want to visit, so they tell us. But the boom in this once unventureable
place of London is evident now even to newbies like myself. And unlike other technology-based
clusters this one seems different: it
has an earnest, authentic soul.

Towards the end of the trip, we met at Mother London to brainstorm for what is next (rather, I listened to officials and creative agency partners and consultants brainstorm): where to next for Austin and Hackney. Here was up close for me to see and hear for myself the philosophy of Mother London, the creative agency deep in the heart of
all this: namely, the philosophy and purpose for focus on imagining how to bring along all of Hackney into the economic promise of Tech City. If we do not
get more reach out into the community to focus on the under-served, and get the
kids involved and excited about science and technology, what we have now is not sustainable. If there is no widespread, genuine social impact,
then Tech City, and/or Hackney’s role in it, is nothing. It is
one thing for a political entity or non-profit to be espousing this view. It is quite another for a for-profit, high-end
creative agency (Mother London) to be focused intently on this mission. I learn this is no mistake. The “Mother” brand is premised on a nurturing,
inclusive philosophy.

Ergo the portraits
of every employee’s mother on the wall, and the business cards identifying each
employee through his or her mother.

In fact, in keeping with that philosophy, Mother London provides a hot lunch in house for all the agencies, entities, workers in their building.

(The massive concrete table at Mother London; at one end it slopes up like this, like a ramp at a skateboard park; all workers are assigned, randomly, diferent places to sit in the office every month. No one, regardless of position or status at the company, is exempt; note the gorgeous fabric for the light fixtures)

“Hackney House” embodies all of this. I learn that Hackney House is not just a
one-time made for Austin SxSW 2013 visit.
It is a living, breathing
philosophy about repurposing, across as many strata of the creative
economy as possible. It’s about working with what you got. One Hackney House was in an abandoned lot, in
Hackney, surrounded by chain link fences.
Hackney House is always a temporary set-up, taking advantage of the abandoned
to create and display in the crevices whatever theme might be appropriate for local artisans, artists, coders--whatever. Now,
post that particular Hackney House, that abandoned lot space is a food trailer park, which glows bright red at
night thanks to a wall of red light bulbs within the decorative chain link of the fence.

During
the days of meetings and conferencing, walking from cool design space to pub to
co-working space (i.e., “Google Campus”—was prepared to, wanted to, hate
it---loved it) with such design spaces
being Mother at the Trampery, and Mother London in particular, a small voice in
my head started to demand that I listen to it.
I never said it out loud. But I finally had to think it: Paris has some work to do. No wonder London was confident
in trying to lure the French startups away from Paris when French public policy turned
so anti-startup, anti-innovation. They--Hackney, Tech City, London--are ahead of France in this regard. There. I said it.
But competition is good. I hope
France – along with the many French entrepreneurs fighting for the economic landscape
required to get an innovation economy really set up for success – gets to this
place. It is close, to be sure, but there is work to be done. I look forward
to Paris giving Tech City a serious run for its money, as all of Europe competes for who does startup ecosystems best.

I hope the Hackney coolness can last. I am not
privy to the struggles that surely exist in the politics of all this
Tech City hubbub. The more I dig and learn I see cause for concern that Hackney’s charm in the convergence of grit and design is already
threatened. The people and places that have helped make Hackney what it is may no longer be able to afford to live or work there. Regeneration activities that include welcoming high-end retailers, such as Burberry, seem at odds with the narratives out there for social justice and change through the boom brought about by Tech City's success.

I don't envy the challenge facing Hackney's leaders of balancing out this new prosperity and Hackney's inherent authenticity with a sustainable social justice platform.

And I can't wait to get back to Hackney and Shoreditch. (Right after I get my Paris fix.)

(Moon over Hackney: after Vietnamese food outing, another one of our very, very late nights)

05/18/2013

Last time I was in London was just over a year ago: I met a VP of a client and we had coffee, ok, tea, at the Savoy; met up with her adorable now-husband Mark for a long drink-laden meal in Chelsea (where I visibly horrified him with the revelation to him that the Whole Foods there in London that he so adored was in fact, gasp, a Texas import), followed by a mad dash for a cab to get me off to St. Pancras Station for my same day train back to Paris.

And the time before that was to see my sister's film premiere at a film festival in London, where I have memories of tube strike, missing a big law firm party, and walking miles in heels with crushed-in toenails and monstrous blisters.

And the only time before that was a quick weekend getaway with my Junior Year in France buddies, in which the cheap transportation involved a night ferry caught up in vicious storms with everyone sick on the boat, no operating toilets, and barely enough time to grab a burger at a Hard Rock Cafe once we landed on solid ground for a few hours.

All this to say, I really do not know London at all. They do not speak French there, so it is not all that interesting to me in terms of a foreign country, because it seems not too foreign at all. Until we get to the food issues. What to eat. And then it seems really foreign, and I remember this is still a foreign country.

(Recent spatula-worthy meal at Barley Swine...has nothing to do with London necessarily)

I understand we will be meeting and greeting and learning - me about VC system in the UK, partnerships and trade issues and other business opportunities with Austin (Hackney and Austin have a super cool collaboration already going on--witness Hackney's serious and seriously funky presence at SxSW 2013 via Hackney House) - but I am of course really intrigued about the food situation that awaits. Our group will be debriefing every day at a pub, and I get I will be getting some beer into my diet rather than Côtes du Rhônes this trip, and that's cool. But what about protein and vegetables, the usual stuff I'm supposed to be eating these days.

Before I run to Randall's to stock up on some protein bars and almonds, I've done some quick research to get my food vocabulary ready. One of my favorite and most informative US food blog sites is Serious Eats. And they report that these are the top 10 food items I should be looking for in London:

Pie and Mash with Liquor Sauce

Bacon Butty

Chelsea Bun

Sticky Toffee Pudding

Toasted Cheese Sandwich aka Cheese Toastie

Scotch Egg

Kippers

Roast Bone Marrow

Potted Shrimps

Meat Fruit

Number one on the list looks seriously yummy, if not seriously non-Paleo. It is described here as follows:

"While we're fans of the gourmet, free-range, responsibly sourced meat pies (like those from Pieminister) you can find around town, you cannot visit London and not hit up one of the ever-shrinking handful of traditional, cash-only pie-and-eel shops. You'll recognize them by their odd hours and lines of old-timers extending out the door at lunch. The thing to order, and there's not a whole lot of choice, is pie and mash with liquor sauce: a minced-beef meat pie and mashed potatoes ladled with a (nonalcoholic) thin green parsley sauce."

The picture is more lovely than it may sound: a light pastry of sorts with meat filling, albeit including mashed potatoes. Ravioli-esque.

But what really sounds perfectly A-ok in my book, is this adorably named Bacon Butty. Serious Eats reports as follows:

It may not be as quintessential a breakfast as, say, a
traditional fry-up or beans on toast, but don't underestimate the power of the
bacon butty—this is, unapologetically, a sandwich of bacon and white bread.
Depending on the type of bread used, it may go by other names—on a large roll,
for example, it's a "bacon bap"—but in any case, the building blocks
of this salty, satisfying sandwich are quite simple. Thick, meaty back bacon,
white bread, and the condiment of your choice (English mustard, HP sauce, ketchup).
It's more than just acceptable to dine on this; it's a pretty common on-the-go
budget breakfast among many a London office worker. You can't go wrong—it's a
bacon sandwich! Also in this category is the chip (French fry) butty and the
ever-popular fish finger sandwich."

Have to agree on the can't-go-wrong-with-bacon idea.

This will be interesting.

One of our group already reports via email that I should take the train and not the Tube into town from Heathrow. I guess I need to finish packing....

05/07/2013

It is heady stuff to hang out with one of the founders of Armadillo World Headquarters (some visual images might help) and talk about France, copyright law, musicians' rights, more France, international TV and film festivals in Cannes, art law, the last live Beatles concert (he was there), the start of Texas music and its future. It is all the more great to have this conversation out in the backyard of Joe's Place, the backyard of which apparently is the Connie's Beer Garden part of this quirky East M.L.K. spot.

As much as I love Sophie's foie gras over in Angers, France...standing up in crowded wine bars in Paris meeting Fashion Week journalists...and a perfectly crafted round of goat cheese with a delicate drizzle of fresh olive oil in Peter Mayle's fabled south-of-France place of Ménerbes, France...I really love a good meatloaf.

Taking Mike's lead, I did without the mashed potatoes as a side (low carb you know) and got a little salad instead to accompany the green beans and the meatloaf.

When the menu said "green beans" came with the meatloaf, I had low expectations. I was more excited about the "Hibiscus Tea Punch" I had ordered. (It's hibiscus tea with ginger ale. And it was suggested that this was not be a bad mixture into which a shot of tequila could be poured...some other day, but great idea Connie!)

Connie brings out a bamboo tray to deliver the tea punch. Another bamboo tray would deliver the meatloaf lunch. As soon as I saw those green beans, I knew they were going to be good.

(True, I did not ask to forego that bread substance; good thing: I needed it to wipe the plate clean. It was a small, dainty piece of deliciousness -- like those Sister Schubert's rolls.)

First, they were not just "green beans." They were haricots verts. Those slim and trim elegant French green beans.

Second, they had those nicely browned, practically caramelized slivers of red onions.

Third, there was enough freshly ground black pepper on those green beans to be very visible to the eye.

All of these attributes combined into what I would regret was a too small of a serving for these haricots verts (that portion control problem of mine). Yes, those onions did have a sweet, buttery garlicy taste and texture. The beans were perfect: as Connie said (when I quizzed her on the making of the beans), they are parboiled and then cooked with butter and olive oil and garlic--"the works." But those caramelized red onions make the dish: they are just right to the point of sticky caramelization without interfering with the just-right crispness of the green beans.

(Some of the scenery for the backyard outdoor seating; this was the scene just to my right as I was seated at the picnic table with the rainbow-colored umbrella.)

They are not open much or for long. As of my checking the site, just now, the hours are: For Joe's Place, Tuesday-Friday 11:30 am to 2:00 pm. For Connie's Beer Garden, Friday and Saturdays 5:00 pm to 10:00 pm.

Next time, when there is not a deadline pending in litigation land, I will kick back in the garden with some pinot grigio. And a side order of haricots verts.